


The Witch

by Amuly



Series: Marvel's 1872 [9]
Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Western, F/F, Gothic, Horror, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Possession, Protective Siblings, Sibling Love, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steel and shotguns don't seem to be much good against the nothingness that threatens the midwest town of Rescue. In an attempt to gather more information about what awaits them beyond the gas lamps, Wanda calls upon her old-world traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witch

“ _I don’t think this is a good idea, sister_ ,” Pietro murmured.

Wanda ignored him, for the most part, as she gathered her supplies. Witch-hazel in one jar, raven bones in another. Some salt, some iron, a box of spices and tools from the old world.

“ _You’ve never tried anything like this before_.”

“ _Of course I have,_ ” Wanda told him. The syllables of their old tongue flowed from her mouth like a babbling brook.

“ _Not without Agatha_.”

“ _I am more capable than Agatha_ ,” Wanda corrected him. She narrowed her eyes, turning a jar over in her hand. Her label said holly, but it had gone black inside. She wondered if that was a sign. Or if she just hadn’t screwed the lid on tight enough. She frowned, then sighed. “ _I do wish I could ask for help from a native to this land. They must know the spirits that dwell here better than I. And what might placate them_.”

“ _We could go looking for some. I could…_ ” Pietro trailed off. Licked his lips. Wanda smiled at him and touched his arm as she moved past.

“ _You spend your rides avoiding them—you look more like a white man than Mr. Stark._ ”

Pietro shrugged, wrapped his arms around his too-thin chest. Wanda fretted over those ribs but said nothing. An argument for another day. “ _With you with me, I might convince them_.”

Wanda shook her head, curls tangling in her golden earrings. “ _This is our fight, not theirs. For all we know the darkness is the spirit of this land, bent on expelling us_.”

“ _Like pus around a splinter,_ ” Pietro observed darkly.

“Dinner’s on.” Carol lifted a pot from the stove, smile tight as she looked between the twins. “And, uh. Could we switch to English?”

“ _My love_ ,” Wanda murmured, going over to press a kiss to Carol’s temple. Carol rolled her eyes but smiled, cheeks darkening slightly.

“Okay, I know that one,” she admitted.

They sat down for dinner, Carol serving out plates of boiled cabbage, carrots, and potatoes. Wanda carved up the hare she had brought home from Barton’s grocers this evening. Game was getting scarce—whether it was Mr. Barton and Ms. Bishop’s reluctance to venture out to their traps or the animals themselves staying away, Wanda hadn’t asked. Didn’t want to know the answer much.

Carol looked at Pietro. “Is she planning on doing something stupid?”

“No-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Pietro snapped. He looked at his sister, eyes dark. Wanda sighed and poked at her food.

Carol grumbled. “I knew it.”

“I’m not going out to _fight_ it,” Wanda insisted. “I would never. Not without knowing what it was, first. What it wanted.”

“So you’re just going to try and talk with the dark force that has enveloped our town?” Carol pointed out. “The force that has already eviscerated one woman to date.”

“Ms. Stacy-”

Carol slammed her utensils down on the table. Their plates and glasses rattled. “Was trying to do _exactly_ what you’re talking about doing!” Carol breathed heavily through her nose. After a moment she continued: “Ms. Stacy was investigating the gas lamps. Thought there was something to them. And then she wound up _ripped to pieces_ the next morning, a wholly unnatural violence tearing her apart. And now you’re proposing to go do the _exact same_ thing!”

“It’s not the same,” Wanda promised. She glanced at Pietro, murmured: “ _The magic of the real, the science of the unreal_.” It was a saying, from home. It didn’t translate well. She looked back to Carol. “I think maybe it was how Ms. Stacy was investigating. The tools she was using. She couldn’t have known, but I have a sense that it was her methods that led to Ms. Stacy’s untimely fate.”

“What do you mean?”

Pushing her chair back, Wanda rose from the table and hurried across their home to the box of supplies she had been collecting. Rummaging around for a moment, she emerged with a box of salt. Carol squinted at her as she brought it back.

“There is science. There is your way. This country’s way. Salt for food, salt for meat preserving.” Wanda sprinkled a pinch over her food. Carol shrugged.

“But then there is the other way,” Wanda continued. “There old country’s way. Salt for protection. Salt for strength. Salt for casting.” Pouring the salt into a rough circle on the table, Wanda closed her eyes. Concentrated. A flash of light, a surge of power, and the salt ring ignited before them, scorching a black circle into the table. Carol jumped, chair scraping across the floor. Pietro remained unmoved, but he had seen this before.

“How’d you do that?”

Wanda reached across the table. Reluctantly Carol leaned forward, stretched her arm out to take hold of Wanda’s extended hands. Wanda squeezed them tight, meeting her wife’s eyes with intent.

“This is how I keep us safe. You know this. I put oranges and cloves in the windows. We keep iron above the threshold. I walk the property, and I say the words in my old tongue.”

“But I do these things, too,” Carol insisted, mouth tight. “I installed latches on the windows. My gun is next to the door. I walk the property, just as you, and check the fences, mind the lights.”

“We do these things, and they are for the same reasons,” Wanda explained. Her accent was heavy tonight—too much talking with her brother in the old tongue. Too much of her mind steeped in the old ways as of late. “But we do this in different ways. I keep you safe. You keep me safe. But old and new, they are very different. And the land knows it.”

“How can you tell?”

“Can’t you?”

The house fell quiet. Carol’s eyes looked between Wanda’s, seeking answers there were no questions for. Outside, the crickets still sang, the birds chirped. A breeze ran over the plains, rustling through the long grass. It was suppertime in summer: still light out. The sun still staved off the three am damp. Wanda looked at her wife, and her wife looked back, and her wife knew. Wanda squeezed her hands and released them.

“I’m going with you,” Carol told her, tone brooking no argument. She picked up her fork and speared a fistful of vegetables on her plate. “I don’t care if you think our new world isn’t any use against this… this… void, what Mr. Stark called it. I’m going with you, and I’m bringing my guns.”

Wanda smiled. “I didn’t expect any different.”

“I’m bringing horses,” Pietro murmured, face half-buried in his plate. He scowled at the food. “I’m bringing the three fastest horses for five hundred miles. Saddled and watered and ready.”

Wanda leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I didn’t expect any different from you, either.”

* * *

 

The night was rotten.

That’s how it smelt: like rotting things. Worms and maggots and flies, churning through the moist decay. Only without the noise of those living things to cut through the absolute silence. And without the sharp smell of decay, the smell that reminded you of life. It was a dead rot that existed without life before it and with no hope of life springing from it. Dead from the start and dead through the end. The damp stillness in perpetuity.

Wanda shivered and pulled her red shawl tighter around her shoulders. They were absolute fools, the lot of them. Fools for a purpose, but fools nonetheless.

Carol’s boots hit the ground with a thud, blasphemously loud in the dead silence. She spit, then cocked her gun. Wanda shook her head and ignored it. The silence had stuffed Carol’s ears and she was trying to shake it loose, that was all.

“Horses are spooked,” Pietro whispered. He stayed perched on his, eyes scanning the horizon. Though what he thought he could see in this inky blackness, far from the gas lamps of Rescue, Wanda didn’t know.

“The horses are wise,” Wanda murmured as she laid out her things. The smell of her old-world spices cut through some of the damp, some of the darkness. Breathing them in, she started humming, thinking, throat conjuring her memories of Agatha, of the old world, of the old ways. Wanda hummed, and she rocked, eyes falling shut. She knew her magic. She knew the magic of the land. She just didn’t know what magic dwelt in _this_ land.

She could feel Carol behind her, holding her gun at attention. Her brother sat atop his horse, body ready to run, eyes on watch. The land around her was dry and still on the surface, but here was something… some other surface. Some other reality. The one that smelt of rot, the one that swallowed the sounds.

What are you, Wanda asked. The damp beat at her, but the spices of her homeland beat back. What are you, Wanda wondered. The sounds fell away, but Wanda hummed, songs of magic and safety in her old tongue. What are you, Wanda pried, and. Something peered through the cracks.

 _Witch_.

Wanda gasped. Her body convulsed, seized in an invisible hand.

 _You have no power here_.

* * *

 

Carol had her gun pointed at… nothing, as she watched Wanda work. When Wanda stopped and shuddered, a deep fear dripped down Carol’s spine. She held her rifle flush against her shoulder, eyes scanning, scanning, scanning for something to shoot.

Wanda shook like a rag doll. A scream escaped her throat. Carol started forward, but there was nothing, nothing!

Wanda screamed again, and suddenly flew into the air, coming a stop a dozen feet above their heads. Her limbs splayed out, like she was being drawn and quartered by the four horsemen. A deep moan rose up within her, rolling over the empty plains.

“Wanda!”

Carol started forward, but thin arms caught her. She yanked against them, but they were deceptively strong, struggling with her until they were both on the ground, dust swirling around them.

“ _Wanda_!” Carol screamed again, with nothing more she could do.

“She’s fine, she’s safe, she’s fine,” Pietro whispered in her ear, mouth stumbling over the English words in his haste to say them. “My sister knows. My sister is deep magic. Old magic. She knows this, this cannot stop her. Her magic is older. Her magic is stronger.”

Wanda’s body bowed, then snapped straight. Another cry fell from Carol’s lips and she started forward again, only to find herself still held back.

“It’s burning her up!” Carol shouted.

“My sister is strong,” Pietro repeated. But this time he didn’t sound like he believed it. This time he sounded like he was telling it to himself. Tears ran down Carol’s cheeks.

“Mrs. Danvers! Mr. Maximoff! Cover your eyes!”

That was Mr. Stark. Even as Carol turned for him, Pietro was on her, slapping a hand over her eyes. Carol struggled, but then there was a flash. Blinding brilliant as the sun, but whiter, stronger. She squeezed her eyes shut behind Pietro’s palm, holding on to her brother-in-law tight. There was a noise, but it wasn’t one. It was… Carol gasped, trembling, as the absence of noise crashed over them. Then, as the light faded, it was gone. The sound of the prairie abruptly rushed in around them: the crickets sang, the owls hooted, the wind rushed over the plains. Pietro’s hand slipped from her face and Carol opened her eyes.

The Sheriff was there with Mr. Stark. He was on his horse, and wrapped up in his arms was Wanda. Carol rushed forward, sprinting out of Pietro’s arms and to her wife’s side.

“Wanda?”

“She’s breathing,” Sheriff Rogers confirmed. He had one hand on Wanda’s neck. “Heart’s beating. Skin’s cold as ice, though. We should get her inside somewhere.”

“My house is closest,” Mr. Stark offered. Carol turned to him, getting a good look at him for the first time since his triumphant arrival. He was on his own horse, a beast of a thing who hated everyone but Mr. Stark. It huffed as if catching Carol looking. In both of Mr. Stark’s hands were two… lights, it looked like. Gas lamps? But that couldn’t have been the source of the light that had nearly blinded Carol’s closed and covered eyes.

“No…”

Carol jolted to her sense, Wanda’s voice cutting through her idle musings.

“Wanda?”

Sheriff Rogers adjusted his grip on her as Wanda struggled to sit up. But her face was ashen, her muscles trembling. Carol stroked a hand over her forehead, through her hair, shushing her. “Rest. It can wait.”

“Not Mr. Stark’s,” Wanda whispered. “Any home but his.”

Carol glanced up at Sheriff Rogers, wondering how he’d take this. His eyes were tight, lips drawn in a line. She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Stark, to see if he heard. He had, judging by the scowl on his face.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go back to ours,” Carol promised her.

Wanda’s eyes slipped closed as she drifted back to unconsciousness in the sheriff’s arms. “It’s all his fault,” she murmured.

Carol winced. Looked at the Sheriff again. He was frowning down at Wanda, but not angry. Not much, at least.

“Well,” he finally mused. “Suppose that’s worth waiting around for an explanation?”

They rode back to Carol and Wanda’s home. Mr. Stark peeled off to his own home as they passed close to it, saying something about refreshing his supplies. Carol still wanted to ask him about those bottles of light that were rattling, empty and dark, in his saddlebags. But her more immediate concern was her wife, so she kept her mouth shut and rode on with Pietro and Sheriff Rogers.

Sheriff Rogers carried Wanda into their home, Carol rushing ahead to turn down the bed sheets. He was gentle enough with Wanda as he set her on the bed, but Carol still pushed him aside, hands wrapping tight around Wanda’s. “I’ve got you,” Carol murmured, eyes darting over Wanda’s pale face. She never looked this pale. Dead of winter, she was still dark, darker than Carol at the height of summer. Now she looked… now she looked like death. Carol helped Sheriff Rogers tuck Wanda beneath a pile of blankets, wrapping her up tight.

Carol trembled and pressed Wanda’s hands to her lips, praying softly. Her prayer, the Lord’s prayer. Saints tumbled through her mind and Carol clutched at them, never certain they worked, never full of faith, but grasping for it, now.

The door opened and shut again, admitting Mr. Stark. He had another glass lantern in his hand, same as the ones he’d had on the plains. Sheriff Rogers hurried over to him, and they exchanged words in low tones. As Carol turned back to Wanda, she caught sight of Pietro hovering in the corner, arms wrapped around his chest. She nodded him over.

“Come here,” Carol ordered him.

Pietro shrugged, fingers drumming at his ribs. “She’s your wife.” His steps towards the bed belied his words.

“She’s your _twin_ ,” Carol told him.

Pietro sank to the floor alongside Carol, face as white as his sister’s. But that was normal, for Pietro. He looked like the sun bleached him to bone. Not like his sister. Carol let her shoulder brush against his, and his brushed against hers. They found comfort in the closeness as they sat vigil.

“Five more,” Tony was saying, across the room. “But I can manufacture more. Fairly quickly. But I don’t think-”

“You have to,” Sheriff Rogers told him. “There should be one in every house. One for every member of the house.”

“I can, you’re not asking too much, but…”

“Why not hang these from the gas lamps? Why not replace them with these?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Steve. It’s not that simple. I don’t think it would _work_.”

“What was that?” Carol asked, striding towards the two men conversing in the corner. Mr. Stark looked up but hesitated. He smiled nervously, mustache curling up.

“I don’t know-”

“Tony,” Sheriff Rogers murmured. An understanding seemed to pass between them. After a moment, Mr. Stark sighed and nodded.

“Electrical light.”

Carol frowned. “What?”

“It’s…” Mr. Stark hesitated. Licked his lips. “It’s lightning imprisoned in glass.” He tilted the glass lantern towards Carol, slightly.

“ _Lightning_?”

“Not... Kind of.” Mr. Stark shrugged sheepishly. “Basically? The technical explanation is much longer. But, basically. I’ve captured lightning in glass.” He fiddled with the jar in his hand. “Still working on controlling the levels. Should be good for home use, but. Kind of bright for that, right now.” He looked back up at Carol. “And I don’t know if that’ll work again. Against the void. More than likely not.”

“We don’t know that,” Sheriff Rogers pointed out, and now Carol understood what they had been bickering over.

Carol glanced over at Wanda, still lying under a pile of blankets, Pietro attentive at her side. Her lips looked nearly blue. “Excuse me,” Carol murmured, and left them to their debate. Normally she might participate; normally she'd have opinions to spare. But now her wife was trembling and cold and unwakeful, and Carol knew where her loyalties lay. She hurried over to the stove and stoked the embers inside. Once they were burning steady Carol heated water over top, then dipped a cloth into it. She returned to the bedside, pressing the warm washcloth to Wanda's forehead, her neck. Next to her, Pietro tapped his hands anxiously against himself.

Carol heated the cloth two more times before letting Pietro have his turn at tending to his sister. The Sheriff and Mr. Stark had made themselves comfortable at Carol's dining table, the lightning lantern set between them. They were talking in the lowest of voices when Carol made her way over.

“Do you think we should fetch someone? A doctor?”

Mr. Stark stroked at his mustache, eyes hooded. “Doc Banner's out of town on personal business. Won't be back for weeks. I have some know-how, second only maybe to Ms. van Dyne. But I don't think there's much use waking her this hour. Nothing for her to do.”

“What can _we_ do?” Carol asked. She hated the desperation she could hear in her own voice, but there was nothing to be done for it. She looked between the men and saw the same naked desperation on their faces. It was no comfort. Carol gestured at her gun, sat next to the door. “Tonight, there was nothing for me. My wife was taken by that... _nothing_ , and there wasn't a damned thing to do! Steel and shotgun shells aren't any good against something that's nothing.” She licked her lips. Looked at the lantern sat between them. “I'd take one of those, Mr. Stark. Or any other of your inventions.”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “I don't think it'll work again. I'm sorry, Mrs. Danvers, but I don't. I can leave you this one for comfort, but know it'll be just good for that.”

“I'll take it.” Carol leaned across the table. “What else can you give me?”

Mr. Stark was already shaking his head when a noise from the other side of the room interrupted them. Carol leapt to her feet, was at Wanda's side before her eyes had even opened. When they finally did, Carol sobbed and clutched at her, wiped at Wanda's face with shaking hands.

“What-?”

“You're safe. You're in our home.” Carol ran her fingers through Wanda's curls, pressed them down. “I've got you.”

“It’s Anthony Stark’s fault,” Wanda murmured. She shook her head, wiped at her brow, her lips. Carol pressed the cloth against her as she waited for more.

“Hey!”

Carol ignored him. She could hear the Sheriff shushing him behind her.

Pietro slid alongside Carol again. She hadn't even seen him leave. He had a glass of water in his hand, which he pressed into Wanda's. He said something in their tongue, and Wanda replied back with “ _Thank you_ ,” in that old language. Carol knew some of the words.

Some of the color returned to Wanda's face as she drank. When she passed the glass back to Pietro, she moved to push herself further upright. Carol was there, helping her until she had her back against the headboard. Wanda's eyes went straight for Mr. Stark's.

“It's your fault, Mr. Stark.”

This time Carol glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Stark's reaction. It was... less surprised than Carol might have hoped. Then again, the Sheriff's eyebrows had certainly shot up with enough surprise for the both of them.

“I had my suspicions,” Mr. Stark murmured.

“Tony?” Sheriff Rogers leaned in, like he wanted to reach out and touch Mr. Stark. He restrained himself. Carol wondered why he bothered.

Tony was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked up at Wanda. “It's my gas lamps going out. It's... It's something to do with me, you're right.”

“They don't... like you...” Wanda pressed the heel of her palm to her eye. Carol fretted at her bedside.

“Don't push yourself. You should rest.”

“You are straight lines and right angles, Anthony Stark.” Wanda's voice went... deep, somehow. Like something was speaking inside of her. Out through her throat, her open mouth. Carol leaned away. The air in their home was cold.

Sheriff Rogers seemed to pick up on it, too, because he pushed his chair back from the table and stepped towards the bed. Carol eyed his hand resting casually on his hip—just above his sidearm.

“Mrs. Maximoff? Care to explain?”

“Blacksmith's hands...” Wanda murmured. Her eyes were unfocused. Pupils pinpricks: all green. Carol wondered if she should reach out, hold her hand. Or if she should wait, if this was some sort of spell for gathering information.

Sheriff Rogers glanced back at Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark's hands clenched into fists on the table.

“Blacksmith's hands, drawing their lines. Give you a lever, Anthony Stark. What would you do?”

“Move the world,” Mr. Stark asserted, chin up, jaw strong.

“Unseat yourself,” the voice within Wanda corrected him.

Carol trembled. Tentatively she reached out. Brushed the back of Wanda's hand. “Wanda?”

“Lights and lines. Arrows and angles. Scared, so scared.” Wanda's head bobbed, slowly, side to side. “Scared of the night. Thought you could turn it off.”

The gas lamps, again. Carol wondered how many would be out tonight. Was too afraid to count.

“I can,” Mr. Stark told the voice. His hand touched the lantern on the table. “I have.”

“Parlor tricks. Child's toys. A pistol against an avalanche. You think you can control this, Anthony Stark? You think you can control.” The voice laughed. Carol clenched Wanda's hand in her own, rubbing, rubbing, trying to rub some humanity back into her. The voice laughed, and laughed and laughed.

Then, just as abruptly as it had come, it was gone. Wanda sagged against Carol, chin dropping to her chest.

“Wanda? Beautiful?”

Wanda shook her head. Her face was pale, but her eyes were her own again. Carol gasped in relief and scooped her up in her arms, holding her tight.

“You're back.”

Wanda exhaled hot and trembling against Carol's neck. “I... Oh, God. I'm back, yes. I'm back.”

“Mrs. Maximoff? Care to explain?” Sheriff Rogers asked for the second time that evening.

Carol pulled back enough to let Wanda speak, though she still clutched her close. Wanda took a breath as Carol stroked at her hair.

“It's... It's more than just a spirit. You might call it a spirit of this land, but it's much more than that. Much larger. A whole land unto itself.”

“Speaking gibberish,” Mr. Stark grumbled.

Wanda's eyes narrowed at him. “And it _hates_ you.”

Mr. Stark sighed. Leaned back in his seat. “Well, tell it to get in line. Give a man a fish, apparently he'll stab you in the neck with the bones he picks out of it. Least, that's been my experience.”

“It hates what you've done. What you've built.”

Sheriff Rogers started forward, face clouded. “Now here, T- Mr. Stark has made great things. Wonderful things. He makes the nights safe with his gas lamps. His irrigation methods are the best in the west. Our crops are hearty, our water is plentiful. Here, in your own home, you have running water—we live like kings and queens thanks to the fruit of Mr. Stark's labors!”

As touching as the Sheriff's tirade probably was, Mr. Stark's eyes stayed fixed on Wanda's, his expression never wavering from both grim and hysterical. There was a mad light to his eyes and a weariness settled deep under his skin. He mustache twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

“Mrs. Maximoff?” he prompted.

“It hates what you've made Rescue into.”

“And what have I made Rescue into?” Mr. Stark asked.

“An oasis of order in the wild, wild west.”

 


End file.
